


for the people you are

by daleked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crossover, Khanlock, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:14:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleked/pseuds/daleked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Khan wakes up in a body that is not his own, in a room with a bed and a framed picture of the periodic table hanging on one of the walls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're on tumblr, anything I post regarding this fic will be under a tag called [shstid](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/shstid) for easy tracking. The title is from Fly by Nick Drake, from the line _'I've fallen so far, for the people you are'_. It seemed appropriate.

Khan wakes up in a bed. The last thing he remembers is being sealed back into his cryogenic chamber, which was cold and bright and hard. He's on a bed, now-- white sheets with a cream-coloured blanket and muted sunlight slanting in through the window, sloping past the curtains.

He sits up straight. There is a framed (if outdated) version of the table of elements hanging on the wall, as well as a mirror. He swings his legs out of bed and lands on the carpet. He's naked and his legs look thinner and more fragile than he remembers. The carpet is soft beneath his feet and he walks over to the mirror. For the lack of a better description, he's thin. Whipcord thin with a head of unruly curls that he spends the next five minutes trying to untangle. There are marks on his body, needle tracks in the crook of his elbow and a bruise on his neck that really needs explaining. He's never had marks that lasted over five minutes since the genetic mod. There's a yellow note on the mirror.

'Left for work. EAT SOMETHING. JW' Khan plucks it off the mirror and takes it with him as he opens the door and surveys the narrow corridor before him. It leads to a living room and he passes by the flight of stairs leading upwards. If this is a simulation, as he suspects it is, there will be time for exploration later. The living room is cluttered with interesting papers and books lying about, with some titles he finds himself itching to read. The Stages of Decomposition, one reads. It's a collection of plays based on a common theme-- dead bodies. Macabre, indeed. A similar yellow note to the one he saw on the mirror is in between the pages.

'SOLVED.' The handwriting is a triumphant flourish, underlining the words ' _and the corpse was found, Mr. Minors, not under the bed, but within the chest of drawers built into the false wall, so cleverly designed to fit the body without arousing the suspicions of those who did not know of the room's secrets._ '. Khan puts the book down and inspects the living room, heading into the kitchen and tilting his head at the kitchen table laden with experiments. It's so very much like the world was before he left, but different as well. It seems almost impossibly alternate. Khan sees how his world before the sleep could have become this-- artistic wallpaper in the place of cold chrome walls, books in place of electronic readers. A blocky television set instead of liquid crystal screens. Refreshingly backward but a frightening concept for Khan-- what sort of simulation have they trapped him in? He  touches a soft jumper draped over the back of a chair, and his fingers catch on a loose thread. This feels real. Has the technology really progressed this far? He doubts it. But there always is one last resort: pain.

He tries punching the wall with all his might. Ordinarily, this would shatter it, but the angle is awkward and his fist skitters off the surface uselessly.

"Ow!" He yelps, drawing back, and his knuckles are turning bright red. No quick healing or even muscle memory, then. It's a new body.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" A woman's voice drifts up the stairs. Khan freezes on the spot and looks around hurriedly. She's still downstairs.

"Yes, quite," he says to the room, and finally his gaze settles on a crumpled blue pile on the floor. It's a robe and he shrugs it on, fastening it and closing the door that leads downstairs, where the woman's voice came. Wife? No, he reasons. Her tone of voice seemed to be what mothers used. A mother, then? His mother?

He'd never met his mother back in the old world. Khan touches his face, surprised by the sentiment.

It's not that he hasn't had such feelings before-- his crew was his family. However, wistfulness is an experience for him. Bitter under his palate and a swooping feeling in his abdomen.

The conclusion hits him like a train. It's an alternate timeline. In this universe, where the technology for the genetic modification had never been invented, he was born as any other human being was-- by flesh and blood, not machines. It still doesn't make sense. Had he drifted into a quantum fissure he would have remained in his body, not transported entirely into an alternate reality to inhabit a body so different from his own. Khan sets about poking in the corners of this place to discover more about himself and comes upon a wallet on the table. His own face, familiar and yet not, glares up at him from a photo. A driver's license. How quaint. There is a laptop on one of the tables and he opens it up, clicking through the fingerprint reader lazily and going through all the data he can gather on this version of him. There are half-hearted writeups on murders and suicides and robberies, scans of newspapers and emails and it's all so  _new_  that Khan spends the day going through them, fascinated by the life he leads. He explores this place the other him lives in ('Sherlock,' Khan reminds himself, and sneers at the name). There's a bedroom upstairs that looks unlived in, all hospital corners and a slightly dusty coverlet.

Khan goes back downstairs and picks up a phone, presumably his. The inbox contains a large amount of messages from someone named John Watson. JW, then. In the Sent box, there are a few to someone named Lestrade as well, but short cryptic ones such as 'Burwood brogues. Church's keeps track of its clients'. Khan is so engrossed in this task that he only has a few moments of warning (a door closing downstairs, footsteps echoing upwards) before the door to the living room opens and a short man in a jumper smiles up at him, hefting a plastic bag up and jiggling it slightly.

"I bought dinner. Give us a hand, will you?" The way his gaze lingers on Khan's- no, _Sherlock's_ neck explains volumes.

Ah. So that's how the bruise got there, then. Khan reaches out a hand and takes the plastic bag from him.

"Thank you," he says slowly, and tries to match this man's face with something. The bruise, the yellow note on the mirror, the texts. "John."

John smiles at him and blinks and looks away, terribly slow and sweet, and something nameless wells up in Khan's throat.

He thinks it might be wistfulness for a life that he has never lead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely response to this! Here's the second chapter. :-)

 

 

Khan has managed to avoid arousing John's suspicion so far. He'd taken the plate of food from John cautiously-- what Khan gleans from John's words is that the it was obtained from a place (or a man) named Angelo's, and that they'd eaten there before. He'd panicked briefly-- was it their first meeting? First romantic outing? Khan's expertise does not lie in the area of romantic pursuits, and if John expects him to start reminiscing then he is very wrong indeed.  
   
Luckily, John Watson sits down on the chair opposite him and eats and tells him quite sternly to eat up as well. Apparently, Sherlock is prone to skipping meals.  
   
The chicken is delicious. Starfleet meals were bland at best, cafeteria food that was slopped onto plates by people with hairnets on. This is _real_ food: delicious and warm and smooth and identifiable. Comfort food, Khan supposes. A lot of things about John seem to be comfortable. His clothing, the food he eats, and even the way he settles into the chair. A comfortable little man living with an arrogant consulting detective. How had that worked out?  
   
"How was your day?" John raises an eyebrow at him, and for a second, Khan worries if he's made a mistake.  
   
"That's new. You usually tell me about my day, instead of the other way around."  
   
"I thought I'd let you tell me about it for once," Khan says. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." John gives him a bemused look but obliges anyway. He's a doctor for a GP, whatever that is, and he gives people medicine. Today was a day where a frantic mother came in and asked him about the rash on her baby's bottom. Khan is reminded of the little girl in the Royal Children's Hospital and how her father gave up his life for her recovery. He remembers drawing the blood out of his arm, watching it flow forth, rich and full and careless. He was invincible.  
   
Khan supposes the little girl has already woken up and wonders if she'd given the coincidence any thought at all. It is a sad thing to wake from a long sleep only to mourn for the dead. He would know. Some of his crew had died in the ship when their life support cannisters had failed.

Strictly speaking, Khan should be telling John he's not Sherlock. This doctor, invaluable to his other self, must have some form of use. He could help Khan get back to his time to save his people. He ponders this as John clears the dishes and brings them away. Out of the blue, he realises that he's slouching in his chair, something he never would've done ordinarily, with his hands clasped together and index fingers pressed against his chin. A flesh memory, then. His body is moving autonomously, completely independent. Khan wiggles his fingers against each other, and the sensation is feather-light. He hasn't felt something like that in a while. Gentleness is almost _erotic_ to him, he finds, reserved for private moments. There isn't space for gentle when one is in the middle of a war.

He's startled out of his thoughts by John pressing a kiss to his cheek, the soft flesh that hides the hollow of his mouth.

"Going up for a bath now," John tells him. "You can get started without me." He walks towards the toilet without looking back and Khan considers what he can do. Get started? Start what? The obvious occurs to him immediately. Oh, obvious, Khan thinks, and unties the dressing gown. It falls open and he takes himself in hand, hardening slowly. This is nice. A change of pace, and John Watson is someone he wants to experience. A cosiness that will take him by the hand and envelop him.

Khan finds himself fully hard by the time John emerges from the shower.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is a little bit of porn ;-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for taking so long. Here's the third chapter. Mind you, it's a little short, but I do what I can.

John is pink-scrubbed and warm when Khan pushes him up against a wall and kisses him, biting and licking his way into John's mouth. He longs for touch, for an intimate human touch, and John grips his shoulders and hikes up a leg to mash their stiff pricks together. Khan is unashamed of Sherlock's body, long-limbed like he but pale and slender where he had muscles pushing out against clothing. John likes Sherlock's body too, judging by the way he moans softly and shifts so that his nose presses against the hollow of Khan's throat.

"Mmm, impatient today, aren't we?" Khan growls and ducks down to nip at John's ear, tugging him up and reaching down to cup his arse, squeezing. John gasps in his ear and Khan laughs. It feels very freeing when John finally struggles a hand between them and takes off the towel, dropping it on the floor and pressing bare skin against Khan's front. They're both warm and Khan wants to preserve this memory as he has with his people, to keep it safe and never let go.

"Sherlock, I'm not doing this without lu-- oh, that's nice." John's sharp inhale when Khan reaches down to press a finger against his entrance stutters when Khan pushes the tip of his finger in dry. 

"Just a taste," Khan says, and tries to hitch John up. It does not work. This body is weaker than his own. Blast this self from an alternate universe. John giggles, actually _giggles_ , before leaning against him and kissing his cheek.

"We can do this on the bed. What's got you so worked up?"

 _The thought of never seeing you again_ , Khan's mind answers, but it's lucky his brain is still half-disconnected from this body because the words don't come out. Instead, he stares at John, who's looking at him as though he's a new man. And Khan is a new man. This-- all of this is too new, but too familiar, and it's starting to hurt. These sentiments had never occured to him before but now all he can think of is not to lose John. Flesh memories seeping into his brain and settling in like a soft blanket. He wants John.

"You alright, Sherlock?" John asks, peering worriedly at him. "We don't have to. Not tonight, some other night, maybe."

"I want to," Khan manages to croak out. "John, my bed, now." 

"What, aren't you coming?" John's body is pink, from the tip of his cock to the flush spreading up his neck.

"Oh, I will be." Khan purrs, and the innuendo is not lost on John. He glances around warily.

"Not one of those ruddy toys again," John says warningly. "I've got work tomorrow. The last time we used the beads I had a twinge for the whole of the the next day."

"Not the beads, then," Khan promises, even though he hasn't got the faintest idea what John is on about. Beads? John turns around and starts marching towards Sherlock's bedroom, cock bobbing along merrily in front of him. Khan watches John as he walks away before stalking behind him silently, pouncing when John nears the bed. There is a startled yelp and Khan has John pinned down, rubbing his cock along the cleft of John's arse.

"You're a massive prick," John tells him, even though his voice is muffled.

"Yes, I do have one," Khan agrees, and John laughs before wriggling out and freeing himself. Khan settles on top and John smiles, kissing him lightly. It deepens as they reach down and wank each other off; John using long, confident strokes that leave Khan gasping into his mouth. They come within seconds of each other, Khan first and John following with a short groan.

"Tissue," John requests once they've recovered their breath. "God, I'm not seventeen and rubbing one off solo any more. Having sex makes me winded but chasing after criminals through London doesn't."

"You like it," Khan accuses, handing him the packet of wipes sitting on the bedside table.

"Yeah, I do," John says, and the edges of his eyes crinkle when he smiles at Khan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm about to reach 200 followers on tumblr, and once I do, I'll be requesting prompts to write 200-word ficlets for! If you're game or have a burning need to see a plot bunny of yours written, drop me an [ask](http://daleked.tumblr.com/ask) and we'll talk fic. *rubs hands with glee*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am _so_ sorry for the long wait. I'd fallen into a funk and did nothing but plot and write bad porn for friends for a very long time, and I am sorry. I'm back now, hopefully for good.

 

Khan finds his new life surprisingly easy to get used to. He finds John's blog and reads up on what they've done, in addition to his own notes. He meets Lestrade when the man himself comes dashing up the stairs one lazy afternoon.

'I thought you would have wanted in on this case,' Lestrade says breathlessly, and his eyes dart around the room before settling on the physical closeness between the both of them. 'Oh. It's like that, is it?'

'It is exactly what you think,' Khan declares proudly, and drapes himself over John's back even as John struggles to get to his feet. John's dressing-gown gapes open for a brief moment and Khan looks straight down at it shamelessly. Lestrade's face is pink and his tongue darts out to lick at his lips before he looks away demurely. Khan straightens up and rubs the pads of his fingers together. It's a form of grounding, he finds, convincing himself that his presence here is real and solid in this world.

'Three men missing. All of them blond, average height. Married, too. You've been following the case, haven't you?'

'Yes,' Khan says, and there's a swooping sensation in his stomach. It will be his first trial, then. To see if he can successfully pass as Sherlock.

'Well, we've just found the first body.'

 

+

 

The ride there is silent. Khan looks at his phone and absorbs as much information as he can. A quick search online gives him the details of the case while John fidgets beside him, looking out of the window.

'I've only just realised how long it's been since you left the flat,' John says. Khan raises his eyebrow.

'I did go out just yesterday.' To familiarise himself with London. He would rather explore at night, of course-- the only way to get to know a creature is to see its underbelly while it lies asleep and unsuspecting-- but there is something about John Watson that makes Khan want to watch him in the dark. The crease between his eyebrows, the curiously flat line of his lips while he sleeps. These are a few of the things that enrapture him. They are ordinary parts on an ordinary human being, and yet when they come together, they fascinate him in a way that has him pondering the exact curve of the planes of his back. Khan allows himself to remember touching John's ravaged shoulder, fingers skittering over bumpy scar tissue and the reddened pit that flushes a deeper colour whenever he touches it. 

It could be love, Khan thinks, and turns to face John. John meets his eyes.

'I meant for a case.' Khan absently wipes the screen of his phone and puts it back in his pocket.

'I've had something more fascinating than a murder to work on recently.' John raises his eyebrows, settling back into his seat to watch the city lights flash by. 'I'm more fascinating than a murder?'

'Two murders and a case involving imported goats, in the very least.' John smiles uncomfortably, the corners of his mouth screwing up tight. Khan looks away, and the cab is filled with silence once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter just to let you know that I'm working on a longer bit. Cheerio!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought of this.


End file.
